The Hessian lowered the sleeping mortal back onto his own bed. The boy
was undeniably beautiful. His flesh was as pale as the dead, his hair black as
night.
His small frame and sharp features made him delicate and pretty as any girl.
The boy took him back to the time he had been alive bringing forth
nearly forgotten memories of riding into some town of beaten and demoralized
survivors after the
battle was won and the fields put to the torch. His employers would be spouting
their
philosophy and moralistic ideas in a vain attempt to assuage their conscience,
to wash their hands clean of
innocent blood. He laughed at their self-delusion. He was a mercenary not just a
hired
soldier and he enjoyed it. That made him different, colder, a monster and not a
leader or
conquering hero as they fancied themselves. The fine lords and ladies were only
too glad to rush him
off after the deed was accomplished, as if they were somehow above him for
keeping their own
blades clean. He wondered sometimes, who the real monsters were.
He often remained behind in the conquered town until another job came
or he grew bored. He had coin and food. Sooner or later they began to come to
him. Men,
women and children coming to beg from the very monster that had left them broken
and cowering. A
hungry person has no pride. That was the one universal truth he had found in all
his
travels. They had nothing to offer for trade except their flesh and nothing to
lose in offering except a
life of need and pain they no longer wanted. Sometimes he took one offer or the
other, sometimes he
just turned away sickened.
This boy had come to him in much the same shape as his victims of so
long ago, but for what reason the Hessian did not know. The pale child, only
lately into
manhood, had all the moral quandries and questions of those very leaders he
despised, but in the
depths of his rich brown eyes there was something more, a stark honesty and an
innocence
tempered with intelligence and curiosity. It had been those eyes that had
stilled his blade the
first time he had seen the boy, not any binding of the witch's spell. It was the
memory of those
eyes that had pulled him out of his eternal purgatory and drawn him to the boy's
half-formed
desires tonight.
He brooded over the sleeping form examining his own thoughts wondering
at himself for bringing the mortal here. He was so absorbed that he actually
started when the
mortal's voice broke his concentration.
"I don't know your name."
The Hessian glared at the boy propped on his pillows his stormy eyes
giving away nothing. His name was something he'd had not heard or thought of in
years beyond
counting. He was forced to reach back into the darkness of memories long hidden
to grope for
the sounds that had once defined him. When he finally spoke it was in a voice
heavy with
suspicion. "I was called Christiaan when I lived. Now I am only the
Horseman."
"My name is Ichabod Crane."
"Why are you here, Ichabod Crane?" his voice was a dangerous growl.
"What do you want? Why should I not send your soul to whatever rest awaits
it?" Like a thing
alive, the blade leapt to the young man's throat drawing a thin bead of blood
and cauterizing it in
the same moment.